5 IMPERSONATION OF THE ENEMY—A MARRIAGE OF INCONVENIENCE—MR. & MRS. SMITH—A CULINARY DISAGREEMENT—DIVORCE—THE AMULET IS STOLEN—ALL’S UNFAIR IN THEFT & WAR—THE AMULET IS STOLEN AGAIN—AN OLD ENEMY RETURNS The season, the scene, the air of the following morning were all unfavorable to tenderness and sentiment. Charlotte frowned irritably as she marched yet again toward the museum. Miss Plim had conscripted Mrs. Pettifer to help her find the Knightley Street Orphanage by means of walking, consulting maps, or hitting City Planning Department employees around the head with a parasol, so determined was she to track the orphans down and bloody well feed them before that Gloughenbury woman could. Responsibility for stealing the amulet had been left in Charlotte’s prophesized hands. The breakfast tea leaves had promised success, and Charlotte herself was determined to get the job done. She had her briefcase of documents, her mental script of conversations, and her exit plan all in order. No pirate shenanigans would stop her today. As she walked, imagining the peaceful Hertfordshire meadow in which she would soon be sitting while admiring her amulet (albeit on a straight-backed chair, with a parasol overhead to protect her from the fresh air) she rubbed at her sleeve, breastbone, hip. She’d applied talcum this morning, and a few drops of lilac perfume taken from her mother’s dressing table. Cecilia Bassingthwaite had smelled of talcum and lilac. Presumably, however, Cecilia Bassingthwaite had grown used to the rash caused by them. And presumably she did not mind the aggravation of one gentle curl tumbling down her bare neck, whereas on Charlotte it was quite possibly going to cause insanity. Furthermore, if Cecilia Bassingthwaite had some strategy for tolerating a lace-trimmed bodice, Cecilia Bassingthwaite ought to be morally bound to inform other women of it before they decided to wear a delicate, lacy, damned scratchy, white dress on the morning of an important robbery. Thus dreaming and itching, Charlotte entered the museum. The Beryl Black display had reopened despite a risk of fire (and theft, damaged books, broken statues, emotional trauma) and Charlotte hadn’t been the only one with the idea to arrive early. At least a dozen witches mingled uncomfortably with a dozen pirates in a scene that looked like something on an African savannah, only with lace and polite smiles instead of fur and fanged teeth. Charlotte paused to evaluate matters. She saw her cousin Eugenia Cuttle-Plim risk life and limb to pluck a stray thread from the sleeve of pirate maven Mrs. Rotunder. Another pirate was straightening Mrs. Chuke’s golden bee brooch in an act equivalent to the unsheathing of claws. Guns, swords, and hatpins flashed in the electric light. One wrong move and twenty-four lionesses were ready to spring into action—and considering the only antelopes were a few museum staff trembling at the edges of the crowd, chaos was sure to ensue. Charlotte smiled to herself in a manner that caused Bloodhound Bess, noticing it, to shudder and hurry away to the far side of the gallery. Spying the exhibition’s curator, Charlotte began to make her way toward him. She passed two witches debating the correct etiquette for stealing rubies from a baroness—before or after dinner?—and a wizened, white-haired pirate stealing pearls from them both. She passed Cecilia Bassingthwaite, wearing a plain dress that looked extremely comfortable, and whispering to her husband, who was stroking her back as he listened to every word. She accidentally murmured the incantation and sent a bust of Erato flying across the room, where it landed in a cradle once belonging to Beryl Black—which either foreshadowed a lovely future for Miss Bassingthwaite and her husband, or was just sheer chance. And for one awful, heart-stopping moment she thought she saw Lady Armitage, the maddest and most dangerous of all pirates. But it was only a taxidermied cassowary bird that had been included in the exhibition because Beryl once wrestled one to death with her bare hands (or possibly shot it from a distance with a Winchester rifle, depending on whether you liked your stories interesting or true). The curator was at the far end of the room, fussing with another of Beryl’s wedding dresses, which had replaced the destroyed one. Charlotte found herself wondering if he had an abdomen rippled with muscle and seared with tattoos beneath his brown tweed suit, but the way he gulped as she arrived before him was so unappealing, she felt no desire to undress him and find out. Which only proved the general wisdom that what counts in a man is the quality of his character, not the swelling of strength beneath his sleeves, nor the warm color of skin that promises to taste like salt on a woman’s tongue as she— “Hello!” Her sudden, brisk greeting caused the curator to nearly leap out of his probably-not-tattooed skin. “Don’t be alarmed,” she told him. “I am not a pirate; I am an archaeologist.” He peered at her with eyes red-veined from constant wariness. “What, another one? I’ve spoken to three archaeologists and a historian in the past two days.” “Junior colleagues of mine,” Charlotte said, dismissing them with a flap of the hand. “Really? Both Mr. Jones and Mr. Brown claimed to be head of the Archaeological Society. Mr. Jones-Joneson was older than my grandfather. And Mr. Umblack had a document to show he ran the archaeological department at Oxford University (although I was suspicious, as there appeared to be a shopping list jotted on the back of it). Mr. Umblack also smelled of floral perfume and had a substantial bosom, but I am not one to judge. All wanted to inspect the amulet and all, regardless of their credentials, were refused permission.” Charlotte paused a moment to consider this. Then she smiled. “Did you think I said ‘archaeologist’? Oh dear, excuse me, I said ‘architect.’ Yes. My name is Anne Smith. You will of course have heard of me; I was recently awarded Architect of the Year by the, um, Architection Society.” She held out her hand and the man shook it weakly. Charlotte strove not to grimace or to wipe her hand against her skirt. “I have no interest in any amulet,” she said. “I’ve come to interview you about the design of this exhibition for a special paper to be presented at our next convention. What is your name, please, so I can quote you in my speech?” A frown began to wither his expression. “You’re actually an architect?” “Yes.” “A female architect.” “Yes.” “Oh.” Clearly instinct urged him to argue against the possibility of this, but his brain was swayed by Charlotte’s unassailable confidence. “How do you do, miss?” “Doctor,” she corrected. “A doctor of architecture?” “Just so. Years of education, most edifying. Allow me to show you my credentials. There might be a small misspelling involved—it seems architect and archaeologist are often confused, ha ha, but pay it no mind.” “Ha ha,” the curator said tentatively, quite overwhelmed. Charlotte gauged he would be easy to manipulate and allowed herself a small moment of happiness, for everything was going exactly to plan. Well, almost exactly. It should be simple enough to fake a mastery of architection, and in just a few minutes she’d be walking out of the museum with Beryl’s amulet in her possession and her place of superiority in the magical community assured. Take that, Miss Beloved Cecilia Elegant Bassingthwaite. Propping the briefcase against her hip, she reached for its latch. “Hello, my darling,” said a deep male voice. A hand covered her own. And just like that, everything went very wrong indeed. Charlotte lifted up her eyes in amazement at Alex O’Riley, but was not too much oppressed to make any reply. “How dare you, sir!” He smiled pleasantly in return. “And you too are dear, my sweet.” “Ah, now it makes sense,” said the curator, sighing in relief as his world realigned itself properly. “Doctor Smith, I presume?” He nodded to Alex. “Which makes the little lady Mrs. Doctor.” “Little—!” Charlotte tried to take a calming breath, but it was not easy with clenched teeth. “I am Miss Doctor Smith,” she said. And she pulled her hand out from beneath Alex’s, causing a friction that sparked across her skin. He caught hold of the briefcase handle instead. “Let go,” she demanded. “Never,” he replied. They struggled for possession of the briefcase as the curator watched nervously. This was not how he expected doctors or architects to behave (although he had to admit it did resemble his own married life). “I’m confused,” he said. “Just who here is Doctor Smith?” “I am,” Alex said firmly. “Do I look like I’d lie to you?” The curator considered. The masculinity alone suggested doctorship, but the lack of a tie, not to mention the collection of terrifying weapons, cast some doubt on the matter. He gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing as if it feared someone might bite it. “Doctor John Smith, at your service,” Alex insisted. “This lady is my wife.” He had spoken normally, but a sudden gasp went through the gallery as if he had shouted. Charlotte looked around to see everyone staring. “Knife!” she told them. “He said ‘knife,’ not ‘wife’!” The pirates and witches glanced at each other, united in this moment under the thrill of a possible scandal. “But dear,” said a puff-haired little grandmother with a dragon tattoo up her arm, “how can you be his knife? Surely a blade is a gentlemanly metaphor?” Several people snickered. Worse, Cecilia Bassingthwaite cringed sympathetically. Charlotte felt her stomach clench with shame. Only the fact her mother and Miss Plim were not present kept her from spontaneously combusting. And then Alex winked at her, as if the situation were amusing, not horrifying, not appallingly messy, and not sure to feed gossip all over London for weeks. Suddenly, and for the second time since knowing him, Charlotte lost her temper and did something foolish. “Miss Gloughenbury,” she called out in a charmingly pleasant voice. “Didn’t you tell me the other day that Mrs. Rotunder puts cream before jam on her scones?” Another gasp shook the company. Charlotte’s marital status was promptly forgotten as half of the ladies turned toward Miss Gloughenbury in shock at a witch having knowledge of a pirate’s culinary habit, and the other half toward Mrs. Rotunder for the sin of that habit. Someone drew their sword. “Clever,” Alex murmured. Charlotte ignored him. She was going to get her plan back on course if it killed—well, not her, but someone. Preferably an Irish someone with dark hair and an unscrupulous sense of humor. Turning to the curator, she lifted her chin imperiously. “I require you to ignore this man, sir. He’s lying, he is not my husband; he is a pirate.” “Aeronautical entrepreneur,” Alex corrected. There came the sound of metal clashing against metal as Mrs. Rotunder and her friends were called upon to defend her scone-spreading etiquette, but neither Charlotte nor Alex noticed, caught up as they were in a private war of their own. “My love, you are getting overwrought,” Alex said. “See, there is a flush on your face.” He stroked the back of one finger across Charlotte’s cheek, and in doing so turned his lie into reality. “You need to come home for a nice cup of tea.” She took a step away from him, struggling not to touch her face where it tingled. “I am not your love. I am a famous archae— I mean, architect.” “You really should do as your husband says, missus,” the curator advised with a condescending smile. “I will not!” Charlotte replied. “That is, I reiterate, he isn’t my husband. He’s a rogue, a thief, a buccaneer!” “Aeronautical entrepreneur,” the curator corrected. Charlotte inhaled sharply in an effort to repress her temper, which was why the man was able to leave work that evening in full possession of his hair. “This is insane,” she declared. “It is indeed,” Alex agreed, patting her shoulder in a way no actual husband would dare with his wife. “I did warn you what would happen if you forgot to take your pills, darling.” He turned to the curator. “Mrs. Smith is quite unwell, I’m afraid. It’s a tragic tale. She hammered in a nail to hang our wedding portrait last month and ever since has suffered an idée fixe about being an architect. I fear she wants to take your amulet to serve as our door knocker.” “Goodness me.” The curator offered Charlotte a patronizingly sympathetic look that, if she was a pirate, she’d remove from his face through the energetic application of her knuckles. She was not a pirate, however; she was a witch. And witches were gentle, dignified people. Suddenly the man’s eyes crossed and he began tugging as discreetly as possible at his underwear through the cloth of his trousers. “Come dearest, let’s leave the poor man alone,” Alex said, trying to pull her away. “We’ll go get your medicine then tuck you up nice and cozy in bed. Wouldn’t you like that?” They were briefly distracted by a woman shoving past, long knife blurring as she made a literal point about the need for clotted cream beneath jam. Her conversational partner replied with a barbed walking stick. From somewhere beyond them came a mild explosion, and feathers drifted down through the air. “Allow me to inform you precisely what I would like, Captain O’Riley,” Charlotte replied, moving her feet apart and pressing them against the floor so he could not easily shift her. “By coincidence it also involves medicine—or should I say, poison!” The curator, still attending to his twisting undergarment, gave an appalled gasp. “Good heavens! I see what you mean, Mr. Smith.” “It’s all right,” Alex said, sounding brave. “I’ve put up with worse. The other day I merely asked her to repeat a sentence and she threw a pumpkin at me.” “Egads.” “She’s not easy, but she’s worth it. Every time I look at her lovely face, my bicyc— I mean, my heart lifts.” He smiled with mock fondness at her. She stared coldly in response. Just then, a dagger flew between them and embedded itself, shuddering, in a map detailing Beryl Black’s travels. The curator crouched down with a squeal, flinging his arms over his head. Alex immediately took the opportunity to yank the briefcase from Charlotte’s grip. He stepped back, his expression grimly triumphant. “Consider this an annulment, sweetheart.” Charlotte glared. “You are the worst kind of—” A flaming piece of wood clattered against her feet. Charlotte kicked it away. “Thank you!” an elderly pirate gentleman called out cheerfully, hopping over to retrieve what was in fact his left leg. “—devil,” Charlotte continued. “But a devil once again in possession of his briefcase,” Alex said. “Do beg the orphans for forgiveness on my behalf.” “No, I think I shall compensate them instead.” Muttering rapidly, she held out her hand, and his ruby ring flew neatly into her palm. With a self-satisfied smile, she tucked it inside her bodice. Alex’s expression abruptly turned cold. “Give that back.” He looked genuinely frightening, and a frisson swept through Charlotte’s body. Not fear, however—excitement. No one had ever stared at her in such a fashion before—undaunted by her reputation as the most powerful witch of her age, and prepared to absolutely dismantle every defense she possessed, should that be required. Even Miss Plim had become a little cautious of her lately. Alex O’Riley, however, clearly was not scared. Delighted, she stared right back at him. “I’ll reach in after it,” he warned. “You’ll try,” she said complacently. They ducked as a book flew overhead—and then, as Miss Gloughenbury whacked it with her stuffed poodle, flew back again. Charlotte straightened first; Alex did so more slowly, his eyes smoldering beneath their heavy black lashes. It might have been alarming had her inner Elizabeth Bennet not giggled at the sight. “Mrs. Smith,” the curator cried out from his huddle on the floor. “You really must let your husband take you to safety. These pirates are dangerous!” “I’m not scared of pirates,” Charlotte scoffed. “You should be,” the curator and pirate said in unison. She sighed. It was a complex sound, containing more consonants than are regularly heard in exhaled air, and Alex’s eyes widened. “Don’t be stupid,” he said, but it was too late. He left the ground and traveled at a considerable speed across the chamber, meeting his rest abruptly against a display case. “How did you do that?” the curator asked with horrified astonishment. “I’m stronger than I look,” Charlotte replied. “It comes from years of architecting.” She strode away, making a determined path through sword-wielding, broom-smacking women, muttering incantations as she went. Bodies jolted out of the way and weapons swerved against their natural momentum to avoid touching her. The perfect serenity she usually felt was as shaken as the laughter in a pirate’s mocking blue eyes, and suddenly all she wanted was that amulet in her hand, in a locked room, with a nice a cup of tea and a ginger biscuit to soothe her nerves. Museum guards were blowing whistles to summon reinforcements; pirates were hollering; swords were clashing with a vibrant ring of noise. The whole world seemed to throb. Charlotte glanced back to see that Alex had got to his feet and begun stalking her. Everyone else remained oblivious to her actions, but although the pirate had only recently met her, he seemed to understand what she was about to do, perhaps because he’d witnessed just how foolhardy she could be when she ran out of patience. Right now, her well of patience resembled a ditch in the African desert at noon on a midsummer’s day. Twisting a word on her tongue, she sent a woman’s peony-covered hat careening into Alex’s face. But another glance saw him fling the hat off to reveal a hot, dark smile. “Concido, concido lente,” Charlotte chanted, increasing her stride toward the plinth that held the glass-encased amulet. As her words flicked magic across the intervening space, the guard collapsed backward, smacking against the floor. The whistle between his lips shrieked once, then twittered into silence. A pirate in yellow satin leaped over him, swinging her purse from its strings as she chased a witch who preferred her scones Devonshire-style. Charlotte reached the plinth and laid a hand against the casing. The amulet, lying back on a velvet cushion, sparkled as if to say, Go on, take me. For something of incalculable value it was rather tacky—a bulging disk of brownish glass framed in metal that looked more gold-colored than actually gold. It was set on a chain of heavy links that made Charlotte think inexplicably of men with hairy chests swaggering on a dance floor. She blinked the image away and focused. “Discutio.” The casing shattered. Charlotte instinctively moved her hand back from the explosion of glass. A mere moment later she was reaching for the amulet—but a delicate, lace-gloved hand got there before her. “Thank you most kindly,” Cecilia Bassingthwaite said, snatching up the disk. With a brief, polite nod, she turned, stepped over the dazed guard, and began to hasten toward the doorway. Shock clouded Charlotte’s senses momentarily before being split by a lightning bolt of absolute fury. She threw words at the pirate. Cecilia stumbled, and the amulet floated out of her grasp. Catching it again, she hoisted her skirts and ran on. Charlotte took up the chase. “The amulet!” someone shouted in belated realization. Eugenia Cuttle-Plim barreled past several people to grab Cecilia’s arm. The pirate spun about, her other arm rising in self-defense, but Eugenia shouted a phrase of the incantation in her face. Cecilia reared back (less from the witchery than the fact Eugenia had eaten fried onions for breakfast) and Mrs. Chuke’s maid neatly stole the amulet from her, then handed it to Mrs. Chuke. But before the woman could take even a step, Miss Habersham, a young witch dressed in layers of frantic white ruffles, pushed the maid aside, kicked Mrs. Chuke hard in the shin, and grabbed the amulet from her before darting away. Charlotte strode through the crowd, incantating people out of her path. She’d stolen that amulet fair and square, and under any code (except the actual code of law, of course) it rightly belonged to her! As anger blazed in her throat, the unimpeachable rule about no overt public magic burned away—much like she herself would do if she was caught and prosecuted for witchcraft, but she did not stop to consider that. With one rapid phrase, she elevated herself several feet off the ground and leaped for Miss Habersham. She landed a moment too late. Alex O’Riley had got there first. He picked up the beruffled witch and swung her around so her lower half collided with Charlotte’s midriff. It was like being hit with a cream pie, only with knees inside. Charlotte staggered back, and Miss Habersham said a word that was not magical but certainly witchy. Alex laughed. Removing the amulet from her possession, he dropped her, and she bounced up off her bustle to crash again into Charlotte. “Stop, thief!” Charlotte shouted with helpless fury, trying to divest herself of Miss Habersham so as to pursue the fiendish pirate. Alex did not pause, but he threw something over his shoulder at her. Miss Habersham ducked; Charlotte caught the item automatically, then scowled at its familiar leather surface. “Devil,” she muttered, tossing the briefcase aside. It crashed into a bust of Euterpe, causing a cacophony of disharmonic noises that ironically reached their crescendo as the marble bust met the floor. Charlotte extricated herself from Miss Habersham’s ruffles, but it was too late; Alex dashed out through the doorway— And fell flat on his face as a booted leg came out to trip him. “Sorry, old chap,” Ned Lightbourne said languidly, bending down to take the amulet from Alex’s hand. Straightening, he turned to leave— And got whacked in the face by a large pink purse. “Take that, Master Luxe!” “Constantinopla,” Ned groaned, staggering back. The pirate girl whirled to dramatic but purposeless effect, punched him in the gut, and snatched the amulet. “How’s that for a dance move?” she said, and fled across the entrance hall with pirates and witches in hot pursuit. Charlotte spun Miss Habersham away, shoved Miss Gloughenbury, and winced as someone yanked the hat from her head in an effort to slow her down. Farther across the hall, Cecilia Bassingthwaite leaped over the ticket counter and deftly kicked the amulet from Constantinopla’s grasp. It sailed high into the air, flashing brightly, and the crowd staggered to a halt, all eyes lifting to watch its progress. At that breathless moment, a young man wandered into the museum, hands in his pockets, hat tilted jovially to one side. “What’s up?” he said to the general assembly. “Tom!” cried Constantinopla. “Catch it!” Tom’s eyes widened as he saw the amulet falling toward him. He reached out both hands almost mindlessly, and his entire body jolted with surprise as the treasure smacked into his palms. He stared at it. “Run, Tom!” Constantinopla shouted. “Run!” Tom spun about obediently and legged it back outside. As he raced down the museum steps and onto the forecourt, he glanced back at the crowd following him. And thus it was he failed to see the tall, narrow house lowering itself before him. Nor did he notice its red door opening. “Tom!” Constantinopla called out in a high, frantic voice. “It’s Lady Armitage!” But the warning came too late. Tom ran into the house and its door slammed shut. Pirates and witches alike stood on the museum steps, staring in shock as the house most synonymous with true piratic horror rose from the forecourt and flew away, bearing with it Beryl’s amulet (and Tom Eames).
Chapter 8